The Golden Oath
The mist clings to the stone floor of the High Hall, cold as a damp sheet. You stand at the edge of the dais, your chains biting into your wrists, the iron cold against the feverish heat of your skin. Below you, the court is silent. Not a sound but the scratching of a quill on parchment, the rustle of velvet, the sharp intake of breath from the Lady Elara in the front row. She looks at you not...
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